


At Peace

by October_rust



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Battle Of Five Armies, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin survives the Battle of Five Armies, and finds himself in the care of his old enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Peace

Something cool swept over his brow.

Thorin stirred; his thoughts, disjointed and drifting lazily in the darkness, began to sharpen. _What … where …_ The answers came soon enough: he was lying on a cot, and someone was wiping sweat from his temple, that much he was able to sense. Then, white-hot pain quashed the sliver of lucidity, searing through nerves and muscles, piercing deep into his flesh, till it forced a choked groan from his throat.

The battle. Mahal, the battle.

The stench of orcs filling his nostrils, their foul blood staining his blade, while he slashed and parried, slashed and parried … And still more would come: twisted, shrieking monstrosities, swarming around him, eager to cut him down and feast on his corpse. They would have, eventually – his strength was faltering, the crude orcish blades had dented both his shield and armour – had his nephews not rushed to his aid. 

The memory blurred. Thorin clung to it, desperate to see the fragments fall into place and form the final image. _Kíli … Fíli …_ A dreadful suspicion sank its claws into his heart. _No. No._

He sat up, the movement so abrupt a wave of dizziness almost swept him back to the formless, fevered oblivion. He had to find them, he'd given her his word that he'd bring them safely back to her, that …

Strong fingers clasped his shoulder and gently pushed him back against the pillows.

“Lie still.”

That voice. Thorin blinked in surprise, panic and sorrow momentarily forgotten.

Evening light was pouring in through the canvas of the tent, lending a soft glow to every surface and edge it brushed. It rippled down the folds of the rich golden cloak draped over broad shoulders, ignited glints in the tiny gems set in the narrow circlet wrought from pale silver, illuminated the exquisite patterns adorning the breastplate. Such splendour, but Thorin didn't allow his gaze to linger, focusing instead on the face that had haunted him for many bitter years.

“You,” he rasped.

“Yes, it is indeed me.” Faint amusement tinted the clipped, polite words. “Glad to see your wit and your eyes are as sharp as ever, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Spare me your barbs, Elvenking.” Thorin glared at him. “What of the battle? My kin ...”

“Your kin and friends are safe and well.” Thranduil rose from the camp stool, his movements graceful and not in the slightest encumbered by the weight of his battle gear, and set aside the bowl and the damp cloth.”The orcs and goblins were all slain.”

Relief crashed over Thorin, melting away the terror that had started to constrict around his chest like a band of ice. _Alive._ So no dirges would echo through the newly reclaimed halls of Erebor, no tears would be shed – more importantly, or perhaps, if he was being honest with himself, more selfishly, he wouldn't have to deliver the awful news to Dís and watch her joy and hope wilt underneath fresh grief.

 _And yet you were willing to take her sons away from her,_ a cold, insidious voice whispered. _To sacrifice everything for the sake of your mad quest._

The accusation stung, but he didn't deny it. Then, Bilbo's face flashed in his mind – the hobbit's confusion, giving way to hurt and fear, just as Thorin was slipping, deeper and deeper, into the same hell that had consumed his grandsire many years ago.

That betrayal of his friend's trust, his willingness to abandon the hobbit to the dragon flames, awoke a shame so acute that his body succumbed to another surge of agony. Dull, persistent throbbing stabbed deep between his ribs, and Thorin felt new beads of sweat trickle down his cheek.

“Your wounds won't mend if you insist on tearing them open all the time.” Thranduil's voice drifted to him as if from a vast distance. “Lie down, dwarf.”

Black spots raced across Thorin's vision. “Such concern for me, Elvenking,” he muttered. “I'm touched.”

One step, and Thranduil was back at his side. “You never listen, do you, you stubborn fool?”

Exasperation laced the king's tone, but the long, slender fingers skimmed Thorin's brow with surprising gentleness. A feather-light caress, easing away the fever and pain, dispelling the yawning darkness that had begun to creep on the edges of Thorin's consciousness.

Was that the elven magic? A spell being woven in order to ensnare an unwary enemy, once all his defences had crumbled to dust? Thorin decided he didn't much care; he leaned into the touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

“Are we still at war, Elvenking?” he whispered. “You came here to lay siege to Erebor.”

“I came to take what is mine,” Thranduil corrected as he sat down on the cot. “Drink this.”

The hand that had been soothing Thorin moved to cradle the back of his skull, then a cup was held to his lips. Thorin swallowed, scowling at the sharp, unfamiliar tang.

As unpleasant as the concoction tasted, it nevertheless helped to clear his thoughts further, and inject new strength into his battered body. In silence, relishing the invigorating warmth spreading through his veins, he stared at Thranduil.

Coldness and aloof beauty – those were the qualities Thorin had come to associate first and foremost with the elves. But as he was studying Thranduil, he could see the tiny cracks in the ethereal mask, the small, seemingly insignificant details that marred the radiant perfection and stood as ugly reminders of how fragile life was on the battlefield.

A narrow cut sliced across the high cheekbone, Thorin noted, and the king's ornate armour bore the splatters of black orcish blood, along with the shallow marks from arrows and swords. Aye, even immortal existence could be extinguished – a lesson Thranduil had already learnt all too well centuries ago, while flames had been ravaging his face, leaving in their wake a ruin of charred meat, tendon and bone. Now, powerful magic kept the scars concealed; still, Thorin remembered them vividly, as well as his own horror and a spark of sympathy the sight had inspired.

His thoughts wandered to the confrontation in Thranduil's throne room. Not his finest hour, to be sure. Well, truth be told, they both had behaved in a manner ill befitting wise rulers, what with all the shouting, insults, and barely restrained fists, hadn't they? Quite a temper did the Elvenking possess, and quite a lashing tongue as well, Thorin mused.

Could they have handled the negotiations differently, sought an amicable resolution? _No,_ Thorin had to admit. Not when Thranduil's betrayal had burned hotly in his memory, not with the rift between elves and dwarves festering for so many years.

So he looked Thranduil straight in the eye, and repeated his earlier question. “Are we at war, Elvenking?”

The king arched an eyebrow. “Would you call this a war, Thorin Oakenshield?”

Thorin glanced down, rested his palm over the bandages wrapped around his chest. Shattered ribs pulsed faintly under his tentative touch. “It would be lie, were I to call it that,” he replied at length. Much as he distrusted the elves of Mirkwood, this time he could not find fault with their hospitality, especially since Thranduil himself was tending to his wounds. “But we aren't exactly at peace either, Elvenking.”

“True.” A wry smile flitted over Thranduil's lips. “Call it a truce, then, if you will.”

“And how long will it last? Once I'm no longer your guest ...” Thorin put a slight emphasis on the last word. _Guest, not a prisoner._ “What will happen then?”

“We shall part ways, rule our lands, and keep to our borders.” The king held Thorin's gaze, the strange blue irises more luminous than the finest sapphires. “Thus, the truce is bound to remain unbroken.”

A fair enough arrangement, yet something about it didn't sit well with Thorin. _I came to take what is mine._ “Those gems you crave so much,” he said slowly. “If I give them to you …”

“Then you will have my gratitude.” Thranduil inclined his head. “And I will know that the King under the Mountain prizes honour over petty grudges.”

Petty! Indignation leapt up in Thorin's breast. The Elvenking dared to speak about pettiness, when he'd been the one to harbour resentment over some baubles Thrór had denied him a long time ago. Petty! _You've turned away from my people! Stood by and watched as we fell, consumed by the flames, our city in ruins! You should have ..._

Thorin blinked, sobering. Done what? Led his men, so that they could have died valiantly alongside the dwarves, decimated in the fury of Smaug's breath? He swallowed back sharp words he was about to utter.

“A gesture of goodwill.” He nodded. “Very well. Since my grandsire had given you great offence, it is my duty to see it remedied. On my ancestors, I swear you shall have your treasure, Elvenking.”

The promise tasted odd on his tongue, but he forced himself to say it all, with as much dignity as he could muster while weak and bedridden. He must have succeeded, at least in part, for surprise and grudging admiration flickered in Thranduil's gaze.

“Spoken like a great king. May you stay true to your word, Thorin Oakenshield, and prove your deeds as kingly as your oaths.”

“I will.” Thorin firmed his jaw. “I am not my grandfather.”

“No, you are not.”

 _Except for the seeds of madness._ Thorin looked away. His pursuit of Arkenstone had shown beyond doubt that the flaw had passed from father to son. _And I must never let it rule me ever again._

Suddenly, strong fingers slid under his chin, gently angling his face back towards the Elvenking. Thorin tensed; the touch, though light, felt almost unsettling in its intimacy. 

Still, he made no attempt to jerk away. Oh, the brush of the fingertips against his skin confused him, but there was no malice, nor threat of violence in that loose grip. What was then the purpose of it? Part of Thorin found the mystery irresistible, revelling in the anticipation that trembled in the air.

Flecks of silver shone in the blue of the Elvenking's eyes, a slight frown creased his brow. He regarded Thorin with a singular focus, as though intent on peeling away all the outer layers in order to lay bare Thorin's very soul.

“There is no taint in you, Thorin Oakenshield. Not anymore,” the king said, voice quiet and devoid of any irony. Next, his hand dropped to his side, his features once again utterly inscrutable. “And the orcish poison is gone from your flesh, I see.”

 _Poison?_ Thorin glanced at him sharply. “How long have I been here?”

“Almost two days.”

With that, the Elvenking stood up. Before he could take one step, however, Thorin reached out and caught his wrist.

“Thank you.”

They shared a long stare, an understanding passing between them. _One king to another,_ Thorin thought. As he released his hold, the Elvenking's long hair grazed his knuckles.

“Rest now, Thorin Oakenshield.”

His body surrendered to the command; eyelids growing heavy, serene dreams enveloping his mind, he watched the Elvenking leave the tent, the whisper of silken strands still cool against his fingers.


End file.
